


Gunpowder, blood and liquor

by Flowrence (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Because otherwhise they wouldn't be them, Dean Doesn't Know, First Kiss, M/M, Mentions of Underage, Pre-Slash, Sam gets laid in the bg though, Sam gets possessed, Sorry but I can't write sex, They Don't Talk About it, but really mild, like really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Flowrence
Summary: "So, pretty angry ghost appears to the victims, embodying their first boyfriend, or girlfriend, and then proceeds to kill them.""Huh, their first crush," comments Dean."And their first kiss," says Sam, with a curious shade of guilt and worry.





	Gunpowder, blood and liquor

It's a hot and sunny day, with that kind of warmth that sticks to the flesh and makes it difficult not to sweat, and Sam's smoking in his jeans and t-shirt. Dean's took his undershirt off a while ago, and Sam's tried really hard not to look at that muscled and athletic body (now covered in a thin layer of sweat) for minutes now. Really, _really_ hard.  
  
They have just talked to the friends of the latest victim, and their report was the same as all of the previous ones. "So, pretty angry ghost appears to the victims, embodying their first boyfriend, or girlfriend, and then proceeds to kill them," says Sam, reassuming the facts. He has a slight frown on his face, lips twisted in that fickle way that says ' _I'm bothered by the situation here_ '.  
  
"Huh, their first crush," comments Dean, striding along the way to the Impala, hoping to get inside his _baby_ as soon as possible. He definitely needs some air conditioner if he doesn't want to pass out from the heat right now, on this shit of a sidewalk in this crap hole of a town.  
  
"And their first kiss." Sam's response is so quiet that Dean almost doesn't hear it, covered with a curious shade of guilt and worry which puts a frown on Dean's face because why should Sam be so alarmed by it? He's probably shagged off some unknown girl whose face he doesn't even remember, in his early teenage years. Or at least that's Dean's experience. Though thinking of Sam kissing someone puts him in an annoyed mood. He shrugs that feeling off like he's done for most of his life.  
"Yeeah," he finally says, after a longish pause. "Their first yucky try at a proper snog."  
  
He proceeds over to the parking lot, yanks his car door open and climbs into his side of the Impala. He makes a grimace when he feels the hot seat stick uncomfortably to his bare back, puts on the so much needed air conditioner to cool down and looks through the car window at Sam, who's apparently taking his time out there.  
  
"Sammy, you got for long?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. Sam looks at Dean for a couple of seconds, with kind of a passive expression Dean isn't sure what caused it, then he sighs and gets inside. Their drive to the motel would be heavy if it wasn't for the songs played on one of Dean's favourite radio tunes. He only hopes this problem Sam's having won't get them to a chick flick moment.  
  
▼▼△   
  
Sam tries to act as usual and not to let his agitation show, but Dean notices it in the little small things Sam doesn't think to or can't control. Like the way he lightly bites his lower lip at times, or the slow tapping at the side of the table they sit at to eat, or his vaguely hunched over shoulders, but mostly his eyes. His eyes can't lie and Dean's learnt to read them a life ago.  
  
He's tried not to hint at it, though. He thinks that if they'll ignore it then it will most surely fade away, and Sam seems to have the same thought, because otherwise he would have talked about it already. He's the one who usually pushes for them to have some talk about feelings.  
  
The days go on with them researching about this ghost, its life, its reasons and meanings behind its actions. It takes more than any of them had bargained for, and they get stuck in the same hollow town for more than a week. At the end Sam's exhausted, and Dean's not feeling like it either.  
  
When Dean catches Sam doing the same little tick with his leg yet again, he snorts loudly. "Stop it," he snaps, looking accusatory at his leg like he'd very much like to separate it from the rest of Sam's body. "You're fucking annoying, man."  
  
Sam looks away from his laptop and up at him with an equal grim expression. "And you're a lazy bum. If you had helped me more, we would be out of town and with a ghost behind by now."  
  
Dean looks affronted at those words. "Oh, so now it's _my_ fault we're stuck in here?" He replies. "If _you_ wouldn't have been so busy worrying about the damn air, we would be chasing some other monster already."  
  
Sam's face blackens, light disappearing from his eyes and making them of a dark shade. He gets up from the chair, head bowed and hair covering his front, making it impossible for Dean to read his emotions, and Dean gets that itchy feeling he always experiences when he wants to know something about Sam and finds out he can't.  
  
"I'll go out for a walk," Sam bothers to say, out of habit, the two of them trained to have each other's back in every situation.  
Then Dean blinks and Sam's gone. He scratches at his own chest, willing for a dull ache to go away, while his heart fills with a pointless apprehension. "Fuck it," he grumbles.  
  
▼▼△   
  
Dean waits for Sam all day and all evening, trying to calm himself down and not to think about all of the things that could happen to Sam in the meantime. It's only deep in the night that Sam finally comes back, and Dean's patience has grown thin.  
  
Sam tiptoes around the door and tries to walk silently to his bed, only to find Dean at the edge of it. When he notices him, Sam's face grows tense once again.  
  
The first thing Dean registers it's the stink of sex. Sam's got laid, which is disbelieving in and of itself, and something Dean wasn't absolutely hoping for. "Where have you been?" He asks, arms crossed over his stomach, disgruntled.  
  
"None of your business," replies Sam. His words are sluggish with alcohol, his eyes somewhat unfocused, and there's something about his posture that gives helplessness away.  
  
Dean shrugs that thought aside, his hands clenching and unclenching, while he tries to keep most of that anger at bay, but he's even more pissed off at the thought of some random girl with no right at all to be Sam's bitch getting off with his little brother. "Where did you fucking go, Sam?" He asks again, stressing out each word.  
  
Sam narrows his eyes, schooling his features into a superb bitchface, and gets closer and closer to Dean, exploiting his natural tallness to tower over his brother. "None. Of. Your. Fucking. Business," he breathes out on Dean's lips.  
  
Dean makes sort of an outraged noise at the back of his throat then, pulls Sam to him with a hand on his little brother's arm and exploits Sam's obvious drunkness to pin him down on the bed, hands on his face. Straddling Sam's waist now, Dean settles in a more comfortable way on him. The movement causes his hips to slide against Sam's, and Sam's groan doesn't escape him. Despite the circumstances, that sound goes straight to his groin, which twitches with interest.  
  
He looks down at his brother, seeing the way Sam's surrendering wholly to him, the way his eyes are pleading for _something_ Dean can't quite grasp (or _won't_ ), so open and full of craving.  
  
Dean lowers himself onto him, finds Sam's ear and whispers, "What was that bitch's name, Sammy?" And he doesn't know what, if the question or his tone or the pet name, but Sam whimpers low in his throat and Dean has to cling hard to his self-control not to do something he could maybe later come to regret.  
  
Sam doesn't answer, though, and Dean grits his teeth, his voice growing more imposing when he demands it again. This time Sam casts his eyes away from Dean and says in a hushed tone, "Dianne."  
  
And that name's so much similar to his own that Dean has to keep repeating himself it was _visibly_ a fortuity, nothing else. When he finally gets a grip on himself and formulates an answer in his mind, Sam's already fast asleep.  
  
▼▼△   
  
The following day Sam's forgotten about it and Dean refuses to take up that conversation with him, though part of him would want nothing more. Last day's argument is put away somewhere in both of their minds with the other quarrels they get themselves into, being always together, and the day goes on with them trying to identify this hell of a ghost's identity.  
  
In the afternoon they finally get a name, this Rose Lestrade from Scotland, died by her ex's, the person whom she had given her love to for the first time, hand. They discover the place she was buried in, a cemetery in the middle of nowhere, and they go there with salt, lighter and all of the equipment.  
  
They are in the middle of desecrating the grave when the furious ghost appears to them and, before anyone can put some salt at good use against it, it possesses Sam, who turns wild eyes on Dean.  
  
Dean doesn't expect that course of action, and he remains still for a few moments, taking in the view in front of him. " _What the hell?_ " Isn't the ghost supposed to harm only first kissers? Sam hasn't been his first kiss, he sure as fuck would remember.  
  
His surprise makes him unprepared when the ghost launches at him. Dean gasps, feeling the strong grip of Sam's calloused hands on his neck along with his own ragged breath, and he puts his hands around Sam's arms to make him let go. After some struggle he succeeds, and he grabs a fistful of Sam's hair, tugging and making him cry out in pain. He tries then to switch on the lighter, and as soon as he manages it Sam's hands try desperately to get a grip on it. The fight over the lighter ends with it slipping from Dean's and Sam's fingers both, sending it near the grave but not quite inside. They scramble to get control over it, running, kicking and hissing, and at last Dean succeeds in getting to it first, switching it on and sending it into the grave by pure sheer luck. The ghost watches the lighter on his bones with a petrified look, then it begins screaming and screaming and Dean tenses up, gritting his teeth and digging his fingernails into his palms until he feels them hollow his flesh to keep from coming to Sam's rescue, any and every instinct in him begging him to interfere in some way.  
  
  
When Sam finally comes back to his senses, he wears a remorseful look on his face and casts his eyes down on his feet, which have now suddenly become the most interesting thing in all the neighbourhood. Dean is still too aghast to do anything but stare at him, while Sam fidgets and shuffles in his shoes.  
  
Really? Had he given his first kiss to Sam? _How_? When had that happened? Had it been an accident? Had they tried to kiss on the cheeks while they were younger (no matter how unlikely that thought was) and kissed on the side of their mouths instead? Would that even _count_ as a kiss?  
  
Finally, Dean understands Sam's behaviour, his edginess during the week, his distress in having to be in this town for so long, his choice to get laid with someone whose name's so similar to Dean's.  
  
He feels his heart pound fast in his chest, his heartbeat the only sound ringing in his ears. Dancing in his stomach are the familiar butterflies that he'd grown to loathe so much, because they reminded him of who he could never have, and all this time Sam had got away with his _first kiss_? Life didn't stop to amaze him.  
  
"We should head back," Sam mutters, and Dean couldn't agree more.  
  
▼▼△   
  
They don't talk about it. Not right away. Dean hopes Sam will bring it up, while Sam still has an irrational hope to get away with it without having to express to his big brother how that hero worship that he had when he was a kid had so soon grown into lust and then unmitigated love.  
  
They pretend nothing's happened for all of the afternoon, then Dean gets up from his bed, on which he's faked to be asleep for the last hour and a half, and throws Sam's jacket at him. Sam looks up from the laptop with a heavy and tired look.  
  
"We're going out," says Dean, and he doesn't wait for an answer, sliding his arms into own jacket and leaving the room.  
  
They walk in utter silence until they reach the pub. Dean's trying to decide on how to behave with the knowledge now in his possession. It would all be so simple if it wasn't Sam the subject of his thoughts. If it'd have been anyone else, he'd have simply smiled a cunning smile and worked his way through their underwear, nothing easier. But it's his little brother, and Dean's peculiarly discreet in this new context of intense feelings.  
  
They sit down at a table near a wide window, with drinks in their hands. Spirits. If they want to deal with the issue, they need something strong. Dean's slouched a little on his seat, huge gulps leaving the bottle firmly encircled by his fingers, throat working to swallow them down ignoring the sting.  
  
And if Dean's are big gulps, Sam's, who's sitting so stiffly Dean wonders if the expression "having a stick up the ass" is actually a literal thing, are enormous.  
  
They spend the first few minutes in silence, then Dean lays his bottle down on the table with a certain sense of finality. "So," he begins, stressing out the word. "So," replies Sam, pressing his lips together in a thin line.  
  
"So," he repeats, and it would be comical if they weren't stuck in this new undercurrent of suspense and bashfulness. "How's come you're the first one I've kissed?"  
  
Even though he was expecting that question, Sam nearly chokes on his new gulp of bourbon. He coughs several times before looking up at him, tears now staining his eyes.  
  
Dean waits for an answer, and, after a few seconds of them duelling with their eyes to assess supremacy over the choice of the matter, Sam finally sighs and glances down at the wooden table.  
  
"Ikissedyouwhenyouwereasleep," he says, so low and fast that no one could really grasp the meaning of his words. There's a longish pause, during which Dean's forehead gets crumpled in a frown. "What?" He eventually asks, and Sam fidgets with his jacket, still not daring to look up into his brother's eyes.  
  
"I-I kissed you. Deep in the night," he says, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. "When I was seven. Dad wasn't with us." Sam stops, but Dean can tell his admission's not over yet, so he holds back from commenting on it. Sam drinks a little more, then resumes his speech. "And you were already snoring."  
  
It's funny how's the last word that makes Dean react the most. "I don't snore!" He argues, earning a small sly smile from Sam, which makes his heart clench in not too bad a way. "Yes, you do."  
  
Dean glares at him, and for a few seconds the air between them is light again. Then Dean tilts his head to the side, mulling Sam's words over. "So, you're saying that a smaller version of you _molested_ me while I was asleep?" Dean can see the exact moment in which Sam begins to wear his bitchface, trying to hide his shame at his own actions. "Hey, don't give me that. You're the kinky one who snogged me while I was unconscious," he replies, faking prudery, only to lose it seconds later. "Did you get off on it at least?"  
  
Dean enjoys his ability to make Sam flush red with embarrassment, and smiles widely and flirty at his little brother. "Dean!" Sam protests weakly, voice pinched high. But Dean wants to hear him say it, so he puts on a serious-ish look on his face and bends over in his seat, stepping into Sam's personal space. "Did you, Sammy?" He asks, voice deep and thick with lewdness.  
  
Sam eventually nods, and Dean practically leaves his seat in his attempt to reach Sam's body. He cups his little brother's face in his hands, fingers brushing lightly over Sam's jaw and ear, and gets closer and closer until his lips touch Sam's in a feather-like brush.  
  
It's Sam who kisses him properly, with ardour and want, his need and longing all expressed in that whimper that leaves his body when Dean's tongue traces his lower lip. Sam sighs and deepens the kiss, hands finding their way into Dean's hair, pulling him closer yet.  
  
Dean tastes like gunpowder and blood and liquor, but mostly he tastes like _home_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"You wanna go back to the motel?"  
"God, _yes_."  
  



End file.
